Chapter Thirteen
Thirteen
Sciacca was an experience for all the senses. The smells, sights, tastes, touches, and sounds rose in perfect symmetry, creating an opera of richness that delighted me from all angles. Lucca gave a different aura—one of grit, simplicity, and a depth of generational understanding I’d never experienced. As we walked the narrow streets heading toward church, my cousins chattering beside me, residential neighborhoods intermingled with shops that were less touristy and more familial. Children ran and played without care, people lounged on balconies and called down to one another, and ancient buildings in faded Tuscan colors pressed tight against one another in long rows.
The place my mother grew up was steeped in tradition.
The Holy Mary Immaculate was the patron saint of the town, and people flocked to celebrate her with Sunday Mass. The outside of the Chiesa Maria Santissima Immacolata was simple—a battered tall stone structure outfitted with a bell tower and clock. As we filed in, I noticed the inside was quite beautiful, with curved, graceful marble arches soaring high above the altar. Religious sculptures overlooked the congregation, surrounded by fresh roses. As I sat on the hard wooden pew next to my grandmother and cousin, I thought about my mother attending weekly, head bowed in prayer, while fire burned bright in her heart for a man she loved and would leave everything for.
I’d never thought of my dad as a passionate man. I’d grown up watching their intimacy with the usual roll of my eyes or ick factor, but it wasn’t as if they were publicly demonstrative or kissed all the time. Still, I always sensed a deep connection, as if they only had to look at each other to communicate. I’d imagined it came with all successful marriages, but now I wasn’t as sure. I thought it was a gift I’d overlooked because they belonged to me. Here, sitting in her childhood church, I had a new respect for my mother’s bravery, following a relative stranger across the ocean to build a life away from everything she knew.
I saw my cousins and aunts and uncles and understood the draw of the life they chose. One of respect, duty, work, and family. And faith. But my mother had all of that; she’d just chosen to share those qualities and traits with my father.
I listened to the priest say the Mass in Italian and studied my family surrounding me. I wished I could have asked my mother if she had ever regretted her actions and wished she’d stayed. The question burned and hurt, because her saying yes would have meant I wasn’t born and my father hadn’t been chosen. Either path caused pain. I sat with the uncomfortable emotion while Communion was bestowed under the Virgin Mother’s peaceful gaze, and the faint scent of incense and roses drifted in the air.
My grandfather greeted me with polite aloofness, and I noticed my grandmother wringing her hands, glancing back and forth between us. I could do nothing to soothe her worry. I had no intention of knowing him well—he was just part of the bigger family I did want to concentrate on. Being around my aunts and grandmother for the second time was less awkward, and my cousins and I bantered with ease now, from the nights spent at the pub.
Once Mass ended, I met and spoke with the priest after my grandmother introduced us. He was kind as he asked questions with a tentativeness that warned of poking old wounds, but I learned he remembered my mother, and he offered a prayer service since she had been buried in New York. My aunt and grandmother cried, and I blinked my own tears away. The usual loneliness eased with their company and shared grief. It meant everything to have other people mourning her loss with me.
“We will eat at the pizzeria,” Aunt Philomena said, tucking my arm in the crook of hers. “Having you at Mass today was special. You must come every Sunday with us.”
Catena practically skipped along, emanating bubbly energy. “Babba, did Aunt Serafina behave at church like I do, or did she throw tantrums like Theo?”
Theo groaned and threw something at her that looked like a balled-up napkin. Catena twisted around and stuck out her tongue.
Aunt Philomena gave them both smart swats and berated them in Italian, though they were laughing.
My grandfather was quiet, and when I snuck a glance at him, he stared at me, fierce brows lowered in a frown. Tired of being afraid of him, I glared back. His voice was rough like gravel when he finally answered. “Sera did not disobey us. She would sit and say her rosary while Philomena and Agosto made faces behind my back.”
Aunt Philomena gasped. “How did you know? You always had your eyes closed!”
My grandmother gave a snort. “Parents see all. Remember that, mia nipote .”
My stomach lurched. I remembered my mother holding rosary beads, her lips moving as she prayed on the weeks she dragged me to church. Had she prayed for forgiveness? Offered prayers for the family she left? I wished I’d known what was in her heart. I wished she’d trusted me enough to share.
Aunt Philomena must have seen my distress, because she clucked her tongue and squeezed me tight. “Your mamma was the oldest, Aurora. She treated me and Agosto like her own children. She was in charge and we looked up to her.”
I heard my uncle behind us; he laughed, but there was a tinge of sadness. “ Sì. She never got in trouble like Philomena and I did.”
“But I thought she ran wild,” I said, trying to put the two images of her together. “I got the impression she didn’t behave.”
My grandmother spoke up. “It was when she turned sixteen she began to rebel. Before, Sera always did what she was told. But she was a dreamer—always had her head in the clouds. Remember, Gio?”
He gave a short nod, his attention on the road ahead. Agosto sped up and fell in step with him. They were both dressed in nice dress pants, loafers, and white short-sleeve button-down shirts. Each wore a cap, which looked stifling in the sun, but they didn’t seem bothered. For a brief moment, I wished I could be the one next to my grandfather, listening to stories about my mom. I’d always dreamed of having a grandpa. He was right in front of me, but the awkward tension between us was obvious to everyone.
“Did you bring pictures?” my grandmother asked softly. Her eyes squinted behind her glasses, and we automatically shortened our steps so she could keep up. “I would very much like to see them.”
“Yes, they’re in my bag.” I’d never shown them the photo album Friday night, so I’d scooped up a pile at the house and put them in my purse for later.
Her voice broke. “Good. I need to see her face.”
I patted her shoulder and we all walked the rest of the way in silence.
When we arrived, I was overcome by the liveliness in such a small restaurant. It was packed with family members I’d met, along with some friends who were obviously curious to meet me. Tables had been pushed together, and the kitchen overflowed with sounds of dishes clattering and people yelling at one another. Scents of garlic and bread filled the air. The humidity was awful, drenching me in sweat that the fans couldn’t break, but no one seemed bothered, so I refused to complain. I quickly twisted my hair up with a clip to get the strands off my neck.
Bottles of Coke came out for the children, along with red wine and limoncello for the adults. Once again, I was unprepared. I’d expected a huge meal at my grandmother’s, but here?
I literally thought I’d have a slice of pizza.
Eyes wide, I couldn’t help but stare at the extensive line of pizzas that were being prepared, trying to memorize the names of the people working behind the counter as they introduced themselves. Teresa and Emilio immediately fell into work mode, donning aprons, and motioned me over.
“This is tabisca saccense ,” Teresa explained as Emilio served up an oval piece of doughy bread soaked in red sauce, cheese that didn’t look like the classic mozzarella, and a sprinkling of fresh veggies. “It is our pizza here!”
I forced a smile, looking at the delicious, rather large slice that vaguely resembled a New York Sicilian but tweaked. Jason’s face flashed in my mind, and I had the impulse to giggle out loud. This was his hell on earth—unlimited carbs and cheese and sugar and alcohol available in every delightful form, pushed by well-meaning Italian relatives.
My cousins watched while I took a bite.
The sharp cheese and soft dough melted in my mouth. The crispness of the veggies and the salty sardines rounded out the flavor and texture to perfection. “Is this mozzarella?” I asked.
Teresa shook her head. “It’s caciocavallo. Good, no?”
“Superb.”
My cousin beamed. I quickly googled the term and found it was raw cow’s milk that was pretty expensive. I guess I was a new fan. I’d become a pickier eater as Jason’s stringent restrictions morphed into mine, but he wasn’t to blame. Jason had good intentions, but I’d made my own choices. Maybe it was time to reconnect with my adventurous side, starting in the kitchen.
From there, it went downhill in a repeat performance. Baked pasta dishes were brought out piping hot, bubbling cheese with cavatappi, peas, and some smoked meat. Various pizzas followed in a dizzying array, taken from the brick oven and thrust on the scarred wooden tables, servers bobbing and weaving amid the children screeching with happiness and playing tag.
I had just managed to escape the endless plates by running to the restroom, but when I returned, my grandmother was waiting. “Aurora! Try the scacciata . We make it special here and Emilio has made the recipe perfetta .” She smiled and kissed her fingertips, then pushed another plate into my hand.
“Um, I’m so full, though. Maybe later?”
Her face fell. Disappointment seeped from her body language, and she slowly dropped her chin like I’d announced a fatal tragedy. My gaze fell over her shoulder to where my grandfather sat, surrounded by my uncles, watching the scene with full disapproval.
Dammit. I did not like him. But I did love my grandmother even after such a short time, so I took the plate and bit into the stuffed bread. I groaned with approval and nodded. “Delicious!”
My grandmother came back to life. “ Sì! It is made for you. For America. We put hot dogs in it!”
I stopped chewing and stared. “Hot dogs?”
My cousin Emilio overheard and came over. “It is a surprise! We looked up the most popular American food, which is hot dogs, so we made this special scacciata for you. You like?”
I wanted to yell basta . My safe word. But Quint had warned me to use it only in extreme circumstances, and the stuffed bread was tasty. Maybe hot dogs in Sicily were like sausage instead? Better not to wonder where it came from and just enjoy it.
I stuck my thumb up, which they seemed to understand, and everyone’s attention diverted to their own plates.
By the time a few hours had passed, the afternoon was gone. Eating really was an entire social event that took up most of the day. I loved the intimacy around cooking and food my family cultivated. So much more than ordering an organic vegan meal like it was a test to ace rather than an experience to savor.
I’d been in Sicily for less than a week and I was already looking at things differently. I tucked the information into the back of my mind to ponder later.
Suddenly, firm weathered fingers clasped around mine. I looked down at my grandmother. “Come with me, nipote . We shall talk.”
Surprised, I followed her outside and we walked a bit until we came to a bench. It was set away from the main square, so we could overlook the groups of old men sitting together smoking cigars, and children playing ball. Couples strolled together eating gelato or small puff pastries. Women sat on their balconies sipping from tiny cups behind blooming flowers, staring down at the square as if it were their television episode of the early evening. I played with the chain of my necklace, thinking of my mom being brought to this same bench, so many years ago. My fingers smoothed over the metal disc as I untucked it from my shirt.
“What are you wearing?”
I turned at the sharpness of Nonna’s voice. “Oh, it’s a medal. It was Mom’s. She used to wear it all the time.” I stretched out the chain so she could see it, and her withered fingers touched the silver gently, eyes narrowed behind her glasses. She whispered something I couldn’t quite make out. “I gave her this necklace.”
I blinked, staring in shock. “What?”
Her face was ravaged in a combination of pain and pride. “St. Lucille. She is the patron saint of Sicily. Protector of the blind, gifting her sight so we are able to truly see. Gifting us the bright light of knowledge, truth, and the soul.”
My entire body shut down, then ramped up again. I heard my mother’s voice, full of faith, telling me the medal was her guiding light. “She wore it every day, Nonna. Never took it off. She told me it was her white light and guidance.”
Her fingers shook, so I grabbed her hand and we held on to each other as the truth exploded between us. “She always carried me with her,” Nonna said. A strange peace glowed from her eyes, as if she’d gotten an answer to a long-held question. “She never forgot about us. And now St. Lucy will guide you.”
The lump in my throat made me unable to talk for a while. We sat on the bench, clasping hands, until we both felt stronger.
“You brought pictures?” she eventually asked.
I nodded.
“Can I see them?”
I reached into my purse and lovingly ran my fingers over the sharp corners, staring at the familiar images of my lost parents. A smile curved my lips as the precious memories of our time together pressed into my brain. “This is when I was born,” I whispered, handing her the first picture. Mom was in the hospital, obviously exhausted but beaming. My tiny body was wrapped in a blanket and she held me close. The camera caught my dark curls, open mouth, and pissed-off expression.
Nonna rambled in Italian, but I caught my mother’s name as she studied the photo. Her eyes grew wet. Slowly, I handed her each one as I set the stage. Our first vacation to the beach. My parents’ anniversary. My fifth birthday party. Graduation. Mom in the kitchen on Thanksgiving, laughing as she held a giant turkey. Finally, I placed one of my favorites in her hands.
I heard her sharp intake of breath. She brought it up to her face and squinted, studying it as if she wanted to memorize the image. It was Mom and Dad, locked in each other’s arms. The light from the living room lamp played over their figures to cast them in a golden glow. Mom tipped her chin up, laughing at something my dad said. His arms snagged around her waist and he stared into her eyes as if she were the sun and the moon, as if she were his everything.
“I was asleep and I’d gotten up to get some water. I found them in the living room, playing some old vinyl records, dancing. I know it was a private moment, but I wanted to capture it. There was this sort of magic when I saw them together. I got my phone and snapped it. They never even noticed.”
This was the love I wished for one day in my secret heart. It was also the love I didn’t think I could find, so instead, I sought out the type I could control. Respect. Trust. Honesty. Similar interests and goals and beliefs. I settled on a partnership rather than a passionate love to fill my soul.
Why?
After Dad died, I watched Mom fall apart. The pain of loving so deeply and losing haunted me. Now I’d lost her, and I was experiencing the same agony all over again. When was it enough? Wasn’t it easier to be practical?
Hearing that she’d given up everything to run away with my father made the last missing piece slide into place. No wonder they had such a connection—Dad had known the truth. Mom didn’t just love someone with words. She’d sacrificed it all. For him. And he’d cherished that decision every day of their marriage.
The picture was now my proof of what had been true. Of why Mom left a loving family. I’d been the witness to an epic love story, played out in the quiet day-to-day of marriage and duty and parenting with no other audience.
Wasn’t that type of love the most romantic thing of all?
Nonna tugged a handkerchief from her dress pocket, dabbing away the tears. Her hands shook as she gave the photographs back to me.
“I understand now. Thank you, nipote . You have helped me see now.”
My voice came out hoarse. “Did you have any idea? That she could love him like that? That if you challenged her, you’d lose her forever?”
Slowly, she shook her head. “No. I thought she was young. Infatuation with a handsome foreigner that would quickly pass.” Pain settled deeply in the wrinkles of her face. “If we had known, things might have been different.”
“Did he—did my grandfather make the decision? Was he the one to decide to give her an ultimatum? To push her away like that?”
Her sigh drifted and disappeared in the hot wind. “Like me, he did not know how deep these feelings were. How could we? But when Sera disappeared, your babba was never the same. Something shut down his heart forever, and it has never returned. Your mother took that piece with her.”
I hardened myself against her soft words, sensing my grandfather had not been that tender. Nonna caught my stubborn expression and cupped my cheek. “My Aurora, la mia dolce nipote . You do not know your babba , but you must. Things are not always so easy as you like to make them. We all made mistakes. You are our second chance to make things right. You must speak with him.”
I shook my head hard. “He doesn’t like me.”
“He loves you. You are his nipote .”
“No. I am a reminder of his mistake. He will always resent me.” Nonna tilted her head as if trying to understand my words. “He will always be mad at me. Because of Mom.”
She let out a rapid stream of Italian. “No, no, no. You must get to know each other. It is important for both of you.”
I didn’t want to be rude, but I was going to leave soon and I had no intention of wasting precious time trying to get him to accept me into the family. I’d found what I needed—my cousins and aunts and uncles. My nonna . I needed nothing more.
She groaned and rocked back and forth in distress. “Both so stubborn! Like your mamma . I beg you to stay, Aurora. Stay longer and be with us. There should be no more regrets.”
I forced a smile and zipped up my purse. She was old, and I refused to get her upset. “I will think about it,” I lied, knowing I couldn’t extend my vacation. I had a life and responsibilities and a fledgling career to resuscitate.
“ Bene, bene! You will think on this and we will fix things. Let us go now.”
We walked slowly back to the pizzeria. Everyone drank espresso, wine, or limoncello. Warm ricotta fritters dusted with cinnamon sugar were passed around for dessert. They laughed and chattered as if there were nothing left to do with the day but exist in the moment.
La dolce vita.
It was a term I’d use to mock things before. Today, surrounded by the family that had welcomed me in, my mother dancing in my memory, stamped forever on the photograph I’d shown Nonna, I was beginning to think differently.